


'Til my body is dust

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'til the storms fill his eyes and they touch the last time....</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til my body is dust

**Author's Note:**

> Song belongs to Fisher. I will Love you. Very angsty. Edit: Forgot to say a big thanks to wings128 for the look over, cheers my dear :)

The knotted leather on Baby's steering wheel cradles Dean's hands like a mother taking a child across a busy street.

His fingers slot perfectly into years old grooves, imperceptible to anyone who doesn't regularly get to run their hands across her supple leather and exquisite stitching.

She's his home, his one constant. Beds have come and gone, people even more frequently so, but behind her wheel, he is the king of his castle.

She will never leave him. She's been beaten, broken, in too many pieces to count, and he has always managed to make her whole again. The day she finally stops purring beneath his hands, is the day Dean thinks he may just lay down in her back seat and not get up.

She's sheltered him on the worst days, been his companion and conspirator for the best.

Right now she's taking him along a dusty no name back road, keeping him from crawling into a darkened corner and never coming out.

He couldn't stay in the bunker. As much as he loves having a 'home' now, a base, somewhere to call his own, he just couldn't handle the feeling of walls hemming him in. Not when his baby brother was upstairs being 'assessed' by Kevin and Garth and some oily cash-under-the-table doctor.

He doesn't know how badly Sam's hurt, he doesn't know if he'll come back to sombre faces and awkward silences and Garth hugging him and telling him he's there for him.

He just couldn't stand the inside when his Baby was outside, calling, offering a small salvation. The black top and his girl, that's all he's ever really needed.

That and his baby boy.

The baby boy who right now is coughing blood, rake thin, looks like he's living on borrowed time.

Dean runs his hands round her wheel, feels not just his grooves, not just his finger prints, but Sam's aswell.

As much as he professes to never let anyone else drive her, he's let Sammy take her for his own enough over the years for him to have left his own messages in leather.

Sam's grooves sit at ten and two, like a good little drivers-ed boy, but they're there, for Dean to dig his nails in to.

He can feel the permanent scar across Sam's ring finger, where some over adventurous shifter had bitten him to try and stop his head being removed. That cut had never healed properly, and the result is the shape of it in Baby's skin, projected in relief back at Dean.

He senses the first cracks, the first crumbling's of his well buttressed walls, coming down, brick by hard earned brick.

Blessed are the cracked for they shall let in the light.

Trying to avoid the inevitable ache, the inevitable shattering of his battle hardened soul, Dean flicks the radio on.

Some soft rock station.

There's no one there to rip it out of him for drum soloing to the great ballads. His boy wonder is laid up with a stranger running their fingers over his flesh, and Dean can safely croon along with the best of them.

Chuckling to himself, he rides the volume as loud as it'll go. Foreigner blasts back at him.

He looks to the passenger seat, a ghost of a memory floating in front of his eyes.

Sammy, giving Dean his 'huh!' look, whilst he tries, and fails, to sing along to all those heart rending songs that have the weaker of his sex curling up and crying when they get their heart's broken.

Dean knows when he's a lost cause, knows when he won't be able to drive anymore and should pull her over. His lungs contract, his heart starts fluttering like a hummingbird, his eyes mist and moisten and his head feels like it'll explode. But, stubbornly, he drives on for as long as he can still see past the salty tears threatening to fall.

The first strings of a love song come floating out of the radio, filling the car with palpable pain, and Dean caves in. Pulls her off the road, throws her into park and wraps his arms around himself.

He vaguely recalls Sam sitting there, telling him all about the first time this song was played, back in the late 90's. Apparently a large group of truckers and highway rats had heard it for the first time in the middle of the night on some cheesy ad based station, and they'd all had to pull over. Muscle bound morons in their 40's, wearing baseball caps and grease stains had had to pull off whatever ass backwards road they'd been travelling.

Because, Sammy had said, they'd been crying so hard they couldn't see the road anymore.

Dean had laughed at him, shaken his head and flipped stations, making some silly comment about girls and skirts.

Now though, as much as Dean needs to reach out and remove the offending guitar riffs from his ears, he can't move. He is stuck in a swirling vortex of feelings he's been trying so hard to keep locked down.

'Til my body is dust  
'Til my soul is no more  
I will love you, love you'

Dean can't make out Baby's steering column past the tears now free falling down his cheeks. Instead his memory is taunting him with pictures of times past, times when he didn't think the sky would come crashing down on him, and a few when he knew for sure that they would.

'Til the sun starts to cry  
And the moon turns to rust  
I will love you, love you'

Sam, young, so very young, gnawing on his nails and waiting for John to come back and see the army man wedged in the door of the car.

Sam, older, but no less worried, asking Dean how he feels about him, and is he a freak, will they go to hell?

Sam, older still, sat in the passenger seat, reaching out and coming up against a granite facade that Dean wants so desperately to drop, but can't because he'll end up begging Sammy not to leave, not to run away from him, from them.

'But I need to know  
Will you stay for all time?  
Forever and a day'

Sam, leaning against the hood, waiting for a bus that will separate them for too many years and too many miles, trying to tell Dean that he still loves him and he's not running from them, he's running from Dad and the life.

Sam, rumpled and tear stained, twitching and crying out in his sleep, Dean's hand hovering above him, not sure he has the right to reach out and comfort his baby brother like that anymore.

Sam, laid out on the back seat, devoid of clothes and inhibitions. The first time in four years that Dean has felt whole.

'And I need to know  
Will you stay for all time?  
Forever and a day'

Sam, sprawled across the hood, Dean's head pillowed on his chest, cradling him and whispering words of comfort, of hope, of love. Begging him to know he isn't going to leave again, not now. Not ever.

Sam, walking away in the rearview mirror, shoulders ramrod straight, determination evident in every step that takes him away from Dean, proving once again that Sam's a better liar than either of them realised.

Sam, running towards him, look of hope and awe etched on his bloodied features, calling Dean's name, until he can't run anymore because there's cold steel where his spine should be.

'Then I'll give my heart  
'Til the end of all time  
Forever and a day'

Sam, beaten and bloody and still fighting. Sam, clasping Dean's hand and not letting go, telling him to suck it up, this is what they are and he's gonna have to live with it. Sam, begging Dean to understand, to get exactly what it is he's been doing with a skank-whore demon and why. Sam, trying and failing to make Dean see what it was that kept him from looking for him for a year. Sam, spread out like candy for Dean to taste, begging Dean to take him, telling him it's only ever been Dean.

Sam, Sam, Sam!

'Til the storms fill my eyes  
And we touch the last time  
I will love you, love you'

Dean swipes at his eyes, can't stop the harsh sobs that are almost drowning out the song that's still breaking him. He beats his fists against the steering wheel, simultaneously wanting to tear his girl to pieces just for a distraction and apologising for the lack of respect.

The final image, the last memory that will determine whether or not he swings her round to face the god awful truth, or whether he drives her off a cliff and into sweet oblivion, is of Sam, of course.

Sam bruised, black ringing his eyes, arm leaking vital fluids, Crowley tied to a chair and managing to look pathetic and triumphant all at once.

Dean can remember that all consuming panic, the weight pressing down on his chest as he'd tried so hard to get his baby boy to realise just what this was gonna cost him, cost them both.

The words had felt like tar in his mouth, sticking his tongue to his teeth, making it almost impossible to get through to his idiotic, amazing, beautiful, stubborn little brother.

Hold on, hold on! You seriously think that? Because none of it -- none of it -- is true. Listen, man, I know we've had our disagreements, okay? Hell, I know I've said some junk that set you back on your heels. But, Sammy...come on. I killed Benny to save you. I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that. I'm begging you.

Sam, laid up against the side of the Impala, hurting in ways Dean can't even imagine. Making him want to rip his own tongue out for ever pushing Sam to this, to vindication via sacrifice.

'I will love you, love you  
I will love you, love you'

Dean straightens, grips Baby's wheel, shoves her into drive, guns the engine and points her in the only direction he's ever been able to go.

Whether he has five minutes or fifty years left, Dean has to be there, because despite their many fallings out, despite the shitty bumps in the shitty road, Sam is all that matters right now.

It's only ever been him.

"Hold on Sammy, I'm coming."


End file.
